30day challenge: 25.

Day 25: What’s in your bag?

---

 

Not sure how this is going to be in any way fascinating, not sure if I can even spin any story out of it, but you asked for it so here goes.

 

The best thing in my bag is the lining. It’s super cool. I love this bag. It’s an Olga Berg, my favourite bag making person.

 

On the outside it’s pretty nondescript, a very low key but stylish black leather jobby; on the inside it’s a pretty pattern of flowers and leaves – not as naff as it sounds. It cheers me up anyway.

 

The only thing I hate about this bag (or any bag) is that when I put my hand in to find something I end up touching every single other thing in the bag first before I reach what I want, no matter what it is I’m looking for. It’s some sort of glitch in the matrix, I swear. Sometimes after searching for ages for something I will swear black and blue that it’s not in there at all only to suddenly see it sitting in there later in the day. Damn dirty bag tricks.

 

I feel a little like Ally Sheedy in Breakfast Club right now. Here goes nothing *empties bag onto floor*

 

At the moment it’s holding… (Drumroll)…

 

• half a packet of Coles brand paracetamol (gotta love generic),
• roll on deodorant (Nivea pure invisible if you must know – smells lovely and stays away from your clothes… I really should be sponsored for this shit),
• Vaseline hand cream AND a tube of L’Occitane acacia flower hand cream recently purchased in Vegas (for when I feel like being a little more upmarket about my hand cream application),
• a little pot of paw paw cream for the lips,
• Sennheiser earbuds in their little bag,
• another empty Sennheiser bag – I have no explanation for why I’m carrying it around,
• a little purse pack of tissues, only in there because of my recent foray into the world of snot,
• a packet of chewies with only two left,
• my wallet (my poor, overworked, wallet),
• black Moleskine notebook with dirty edges, two thirds full of scribbled ramblings on the run,
• pen,
• a citrix chip for work (you know, a password generator thing-a-me-bob that lets me log in off-site),
• one plastic spoon (?),
• digital camera (I like to carry it around in case I see something snapworthy),
• black eyeliner pencil (thrown in yesterday to take to work for halloween in case anyone wanted to draw black things on their face. They didn’t),
• a green jade happy buddha all the way from Vietnam, given to me by my last boyfriend,
• Transperth smart rider (a misnomer),
• spare rubber thingamys for my earbuds,
• a printout for my cut and paste micro festival ticket (GET YOURS NOW),
• one lonely tampon,
• one black hairclip.

I don’t know how your day could get any better than reading all of that. I mean, the fascination and awe! The excitement! How can anything else top it? I for one am overcome.

 

Feel free to tell me what my contents say about me for I have no idea.

life is not a disclaimer

 

life is not a

                 disclaimer

,an asterisk like a

    beautyspot of promise -

a thing to come

                          :addendum

 

life should be a

                       simile

  without

  the box

              ing-up of it;

a free-ly roaming thing

 

a horse

          gallo-

                   ping.

unexplained

unjustified and

                    unapologetic

now is the winter..

There is nothing like a calm, sunny day in the middle of winter to remind you why the freezing, stormy, wintery days exist.

 

If every day was fine and 22 degrees we’d never know the difference.

 

Perhaps my soiree through the weedy thicket of singledom (again) is so I will be able to more fully appreciate the sun-dappled forest of love in a relationship the next time round.

 

Or, perhaps my love life, now currently in winter, needs to go through a spring clean before I hit the warmth of summer.

 

In any case, I’ll take the odd day of sunshine and warmth during winter while I wait.

 

I just hope it’s a short winter and a long luscious summer…

 

my brain creates a wha?

Would you believe I made a connection between mobile phones and babies today?

 

I have a new phone, having lost my old one in a drunken state when I lost myself and blacked out. As always, it’s hard to get used to different technology, so I’ve spent the week looking at it like a foreign object, furrowed brow and all; playing with the touch screen, trying to work out the menus, spending two days working out how to set the date and time… you know the drill…

 

Today I had a breakthrough. I glanced at it sitting next to me and actually felt an affinity for it. It had started to integrate with me. I even didn’t mind the dusty pink cover (of which at first I wasn’t fond). It suddenly looked pretty, and workable, and mine.

 

This is the line that next went through my head: if I ever have a baby, it will probably be the same thing.

 

Good grief, I thought, that’s a bit wrong, isn’t it?

 

On reflection though, there’s something to it. I mean, pre-babies, we’re used to humans being grown up (mostly), then babies comes along, and it’s not like we know how to work them out straight away, right? It takes time; you read a few manuals, stare at them for a while, and wait for blessed integration to occur, right?

 

It sure as hell takes a long time to work out how to set the alarm correctly on them anyway, so I’ve heard.

 

Do you know those times when connections in your head make perfect sense, and you know where and what you’re getting at, but using words to explain it is a useless exercise? This might be one of those times…

the muse

the muse has deserted.

gone on some loooooong trip

without me.

 

she better be gathering

good stories on the road,

 

like tales of lone travellers

who wander side-streets,

interesting meals in small cafes,

lost possesions, inner peace found,

luck, serendipity, passion,

photo opportunities and silent sunsets.

 

or at least, bring me back a t-shirt.

mad theory monday

If, like me, you spent this weekend swimming in deliciously lovely music thanks to the JJJ Hottest100, you may be joining the nationwide head scratch on why out of 100 songs there were absolutely no female bands, and only one female guest singer (Teardrop by Massive Attack).

 

When I look over my votes, I only gave two votes to females, one being Teardrop. In theory that means I should be able to ask myself ‘why?’ and have an answer. Nope. No idea.

 

The interweb is buzzing with theories pulled from every crevice; every 2-bit blogger is tapping out a furious tirade or a shoulder-shrugging article on the subject. Some suggest it should be the focus of scientific study; others are making tag clouds out of the song list to see if they can spot a trend in the fluff.

 

Sounds like fun. Let’s go mad theory on this…

 

---

Theory number 1: Girl singers just need to be pretty. Boy singers need to neither be pretty, nor able to sing.

 

Shane MacGowan, Sid Vicious, Tom Waits, Lou Reed – no pin up boys there, and singing voices that aren’t exactly soothing to listen to; Lou Reed’s apparently tone deaf, for crying out loud. Still, I could listen to these guys all day.

 

The overly pretty, ‘marketable’ girls all hang out at the commercial stations: Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, P!nk, Rhianna… If I was forced to listen to these cut-out drones for any length of time I would off myself. Most JJJ listeners have turned to JJJ for the same reason, I surmise.

 

 

Theory number 2: Boys like singing along to boy singers, and so do girls, mostly.

 

Boys can belt it out to Rage Against the Machine, The Clash, Beastie Boys, and as a girl I can say my belting-out ability is pretty good too. Have you ever seen a guy trying to sing to Bjork or Kate Bush though? Doesn’t quite work.

 

 

Theory number 3: The Hottest100 list did include females, by proxy.

 

Take the two artists who scored the most votes at four a-piece: Thom Yorke in Radiohead, and Jeff Buckley – both with voices angels would approve of. Other girly-singing bands to make the list include Bon Iver, Coldplay, Smashing Pumpkins, Gotye, The Cure and Michael Jackson.

 

There is something about the sweet tones of Thom Yorke and Jeff Buckley that just makes me jellify. It’s like they’re singing to my ovaries and all I want to do is have their babies. To extrapolate, every female must think like that, right? It’s not just me… right?

 

 

Theory number 4: We all just forgot.

 

I know I did.

 

We all just forgot the rocker chicks like Blondie, Chrissy Amphlett and Chrissie Hynde; the far-out chicks like Bjork and Sia; the alternative chicks from Portishead, Goldfrapp and Fever Ray; the chicks that got the ball rolling like Janis Joplin and Nancy Sinatra.

 

Oh well, next decade maybe.

thankful thursday

Therapy on Thursday. Time I did that silly gratitude thing. I say silly because it’s not really my style, the whole gratitude journal wankery. However, it does have its merits.

 

It’s too easy to forget what we have in this world, because we focus too much on what we haven’t. Being thankful and grateful is a way to kick ourselves in the arse; pull us out of ourselves and into the magic that is this world and this life.

 

See, with the wankery.

 

Anyhoo, I should just be permanently bent over and kicked, but it’s bad for the posture. So instead, I force myself to dub this day thankful thursday and scrape my brain for the good, leaving the bad to settle like sediment at the bottom of the murky pond of my mind.

 

I am thankful for

 

• dark chocolate
• a job that gives me enough money to buy dark chocolate
• not being allergic to dark chocolate
• tastebuds that work
• grey goose vodka
• coffee dates with the girls
• fart jokes
• being able to run around my house naked whenever I want
• curtains
• oh, and willy wagtails

Ok, so it’s a start; as most of my posts end: a work in progress.

cummings is the man, kind)

You know, i was writing a perfectly nice blog but then i had a perfectly not nice thing happen to me and now I’m leaning on the vodka a little too heavily and cursing a little too heavily and heart is too heavily down, so here’s another of my favourite cummings poems that kind of fits the mood I’m in, as I didn’t post yesterday and I don’t want that to become a habit. And vodka and frangelico is the bomb people, the bomb.

 

this mind made war

being generous

this heart could dare )

unhearts can less

 

unminds must fear

because and why

what filth is here

unlives do cry

 

on him they shat

they shat encore

he laughed and spat

( this life could dare

 

freely to give

as gives a friend

not those who slave

unselves to lend

 

for hope of hope

must coo or boo

may strut or creep

ungenerous who

 

ape deftly aims

they dare not share )

such make their names

( this poet made war

 

whose naught and all

sun are and moon

come fair come foul

he goes alone

 

daring to dare

for joy of joy )

what stink is here

unpoets do cry

 

unfools unfree

undeaths who live

nor shall they be

and must they have

 

at him they fart

they fart full oft

( with mind with heart

he spat and laughed

 

with self with life

this poet arose

nor hate nor grief

can go where goes

 

this whyless soul

a loneliest road

who dares to stroll

almost this god

 

this surely dream

perhaps this ghost )

humbly and whom

for worst or best

 

( and proudly things

only which grow

and the rain’s wings

the birds of snow

 

things without name

beyond because

things over blame

things under praise

 

glad things or free

truly which live

always shall be

may never have )

 

do i salute

( by moon by sun

i deeply greet

this fool and man

 

- ee cummings

frocks or fellas?

I’ve been hunting for a dress for the last week or so. Today I realised that my dress hunting and collecting, and my love life, have way too much in common.

 

I’ve had dresses that have been tall, short, medium, light, dark, and fantastically coloured.

 

Some were great at emphasising my assets, others not.

 

Some dresses have definitely been totally wrong for me but I bought them anyway and persevered with wearing them. Once I faced up to the fact they were just making me look silly, I never wore them again. Some are still in the back of my wardrobe because I’m unable to let go. After all, I paid a lot of good money for them. Others I had no qualms about chucking out.

 

Some dresses wore themselves out before I had a chance to. They were obviously cheaply made (oo, that’s catty). If I’m looking for dresses in a shop of some variation of ‘skanks-r-us’ then what else am I going to be expected to find? I need to shop more in the classy end of town.

 

A few dresses were only worn for one night – some of them holding fond memories, others rather regrettable.

 

Sometimes I’ve found a dress I really love, in a respectable high-priced shop, but I’ve left them on the shelf, thinking I wasn’t justified in spending that kind of money.  I wish I had just gone ahead and bought them, enjoyed wearing them, and consequences be damned. Who knows what fantastic experiences those dresses would have given me?

 

The dress I bought today doesn’t fit me properly around the top. I took it to a place to get the top section taken in and it’s going to cost a fortune. Not only that, but now I have a huge complex about my arse and thighs after the lady said it really looked like it should also be taken out around that area. Don’t bother buying a dress that doesn’t fit. It’s not worth it – to your bank balance, or your self esteem.

 

So, the next dress I want to find has to fit me perfectly without needing any alterations, be in it for the long haul, and make me feel absolutely wonderful. Ok world? Please and thankyou.

 

(Ps. I already have some killer heels ready and waiting…)

bye michael

What makes a celebrity death so different from a normal death? I'll tell you what -- people (and let's get this right, total strangers), feel they have a right to rubbish the person before they're even cold and stiff.

 

It makes me sick.

 

News of Michael Jackson's death sent a ripple around the world. It knocked the wind out of me. He's someone you just imagine will be around forever. I grew up with him, and now he's gone.

 

One of my early memories is of a littler version of me in primary school, standing in the library absolutely enraptured by a book with all the lyrics from 'Thriller' written out, including pictures. I was in heaven, so excited!

 

This man shaped my taste in music and I'm not the only one. His influence can be seen and heard everywhere, there's no denying it. His career spanned four decades for crying out loud. And yet, he's not even been dead 24hours and the viral emails have started, the vitriol on various blogs is cranking along, and everyone's got an opinion.

 

"He's a basket case and the world is better off without him" – would you say that about someone you actually knew? Why does it make it ok to say it about a stranger? Especially one who has either directly or indirectly given you such enjoyment?

 

And what’s with the jokes? The man died, for christsake, and you want to make a joke out of it? I don’t know who’s worse – the teller of the joke, or the one laughing.

 

Has this man become more than human? Did he go beyond human? Is that why we think it’s fine to treat him as some sort of inanimate object? He was a man, with children, and siblings, and friends, who have all lost him, and now they’re listening to the world rip the shit out of him.

 

I for one have realised how much I take for granted, and how many people I take for granted, thinking they’ll always be here.

 

I was going to finish by saying rest in peace, but he won’t even be given the dignity of that. Shame on us all.

 

 

thanks for the music.

enter the blank here

blinking cursor

the blinking evil thing,

mocking my blinking brain derailment.

i have other things to think about

like (blink. blink. blink.) you’re putting me off.

stop it.

hands shut eyes.

i can hear you blink. blink. blink.

stop it.

like a puppy panting,

waiting for bones, or balls, or (blink. blink. blink.)

stop it.

i can’t think when you blink.

regurgitate letters, swallow words -

is that all you do?

make up your mind: in or out.

who controls whom?

bad day good day

I have an idea.

As I’m finished with the happy pills which kept me relatively sane over the last month, I think I should now try and create my own level-headed stability by deconstructing my days in terms of bad AND good. I have a tendency to emphasise the bad, you see.

We easily forget that both good and bad exist in equal quantities, and you can’t really have one without the other. Gibran, as always, puts it best when he writes on joy and sorrow:

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

-- The Prophet; Kahlil Gibran

And so, Today.

---

the bad

I had two moments today which made me make grindy-teeth noises.

First: occurred on the way to work at a particular merge-point which has often seen me engaging a bit of the tourette’s in the past. I don’t know why drivers have such a problem with merging in traffic. I suspect it is something to do with large egos wanting to ‘win’ in any situation.

The lanes had just merged into one, everyone was merging like a zip, and the car behind me was overlapping the back half of mine, but for some reason he sped up and started honking me. I don’t know what he expected me to do. Besides, it was obvious his only options were to let the other half of my car through, or plough into the side of me. Wot a nong. Go back to school, you fool.

Second: occurred when I got to work (mornings seem to be where the idiots cluster in my life). I received an email from someone I didn’t know, which stated “Hi Ruth, [no, not me] Can you please provide me with a quote on the following.. [etc etc]”. It was not from the company I’m employed to solely look after, so I dutifully replied, “Hello, I think this has been sent to the wrong address. My name is Mel. Regards [etc etc]”.

She replied “I sent this email to the following address [insert totally wrong address here.co.nz]. Is this not the Ruth I spoke to yesterday? I need you to provide me with this quote ASAP.”

Idiot. How can you not see the address of a received email and figure out that it is TOTALLY different to the one you are trying to send to, including the freaking country? I also don’t know how “My name is Mel” could be so misinterpreted. I’m still trying to work it out. And don’t even get me started on ASAP. Any time I see it, I want to automatically add IM in front of it.

---

---

The good

Gosh, this is hard…

First: I got to leave work early (well, on time) which was an accomplishment, because I was bombarded after lunch and started to drown somewhat. It was joyous.

Second: Umm… I’m glad I’m not Ruth?

---

See? Obviously more work required in the area of equal-weight.

ECHO..(Echo..echo…) or, self-pity 101

4,814,527. Nice number, yes?

This is my Technorati ranking, unchanged since I started around a month ago. I guess that’s a good thing – at least I haven’t gone down. It tells me there are 4,814,526 blogs ranked higher than me. Yay for me!

Technorati also seems to take great pleasure in telling me I have ‘no authority yet’. That’s ok; it just means that no other blog in the billions of blogs out there, link to mine. None. None at all. Existential sigh.

Truth told, I don’t even know if I want reach with this blog. So far I’m happy in my own little corner of the interweb tapping away to myself about life love and lunacy, but then, what’s the purpose and point of it? Sure, it means I get to poke myself an awful lot, and you, dear reader, get to laugh, but apart from that, what does it accomplish if I’m just echoing down a dark hallway?

I’ve yet to work out where I’m going with this. I’m hoping if I stick at it long enough, some creature will rise out of the murky depths and yell “bingo!” at me, and everything will fall neatly into place. Yes, yes, that’s it. Maybe they’ll even be holding Excalibur.

So, in the meantime, mediocrity is mine. I embrace it whole-heartedly (until the aforementioned creature comes along).

[fade to black]

embracing my disillusionment

No. I’ve got nothing today. I’m meant to be getting into the discipline of writing something every day, and today, I seriously have nothing. Worthwhile, that is.

I even tried to callously milk my friends dry while we sat around enjoying a sunday sesh at the local pub, to no avail. Although the philosophical discussions were exceptional, as were the discussions on farting. Top notch. Seriously. I’m not being sarcastic! I’m sure there’s a blog in there about the philosophy of doppelgangers, or of farting quietly… it’s just that my brain is full of too much beer to process it right now..

So I can only tell you about my day today. Which involves a man on the plump side, in a full length one-piece grey fluffy jumpsuit. I only wish I got a photo.

I threw myself outside into the world today, after spending all day inside yesterday. It’s not healthy to spend two days in a row cut off from fresh air, vitamin D, and other strange people.

I know, I thought, I’ll head into the city to try and find some clothes for winter, seeing as it’s getting cold and I have nothing to wear. I’ll give myself a mission: a) head into the city; b) find warm clothes. How hard can it be?

I hate clothes shopping with a passion. I’m not very ‘girl’ at all. It’s a chore which I refuse to embrace. It’s hard enough getting dressed once in the morning, let alone going to a public place and standing in a change room and undressing and dressing time and time again. I detest it.

It also doesn’t help that I have no idea what my ‘style’ is anymore. A couple of weeks ago I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, wearing one of my many black Emily the Strange tees (one with skulls and death on it, but done pretty-like), dark jeans, heavy eyeliner, slicked limp hair, and discovered I was well on my way to emo, at the age of 34. Nay I say!

But, I have no other style. I’m not fluffy, or frilly, or (thank christ) ra-ra skirty, I’m just me a-la casual (with an apparent dash of emo).

So, the mission underway, I’m strolling through the city, connecting in milliseconds with casual glances at the people around me, when a thought pops into my head which I have to write down in my moleskine: ‘Shopping. I’m in the valley of the damned, embracing my disillusionment’.

I stop at a bench to write it down (my writing is atrocious – doubly so if I write when I walk), and I’m joined by a fairly large, possibly out of a mental hospital man, wearing a one piece, full length, grey fluffy jumpsuit slash body blanket slash wtf is it?

He’s dragging heavily on a cigarette and decides, since my head is buried in a notebook and I’m obviously engaged in intense personal thought, to strike up a convo with me. “I see that your writing is very small. You write very small. And you have small lines in the book. I can’t write small” wherein he pulls out his own notebook and displays it proudly, for me to acknowledge.

“I try, but I just can’t write that small, on the lines.” I think he’s going to open up his notebook to provide an example. I write faster, adding ‘sitting next to a guy in a 1-piece jumpsuit – grey, fluffy and he’s talking to me about writing in books. Funny stuff.’ I offer him a verbal critique of my horrendous scrawl, chuckling in that ‘don’t hurt me’ way.

It was truly bizarre. But I’m glad I’m not the only one walking around with a notebook of some description, writing down random thoughts on the fly. I wonder how many of us are out there?

A notebook in the bag is like a Harry Potter Pensieve – a place to pull out the threads of our random thoughts to review in a third-person perspective later down the track. I highly recommend it. Although if you’re wearing a one-piece at the time, and look a little like the crazy guy from The Simpsons who thought he was Michael Jackson, I may not acknowledge you while you do it.

Oh and in case you’re wondering, I failed on the clothing, but managed to find some fairly respectable winter boots. Much better than my last effort when I went looking for clothes, and came home with three new books instead.

friday fluff – full moons and freaks

Well two days out from a full moon and everyone’s gone trippy it seems. I can almost feel the crazy in the air. Ohhh, it’s a Sagittarius full moon – that explains it. Being a crazy saggi myself, I now understand…

It’s almost like every full moon has its own flavour. Sometimes I feel super-sensual around a full moon, sometimes sad, sometimes full of energy, sometimes wacked-out. This one’s definitely of the psycho kind.

I don’t think it matters if someone doesn’t agree with the moon’s influence on us in this way; to me, many people just seem to act noticeably different around a full moon, whether they’re aware of it or not.

It certainly explains my day today. Crazy came to town and everyone bought fairy floss. And truth be told, now that I’ve finished working, I’m starting to tingle a little with the crazy myself. Yeeeeaaaaahhh!

Therefore my imaginary (sorry, ethereal) friends, let’s put away the thinking thing for today and ponder the awesomeness of the moon, and what in the world this picture might possibly be trying to say -

It’s a gigantic billboard spied on my last trip to Melbourne. Can I get a ‘say what?’ brother?

rant (or, the philosophy of STFU)

Ok. I started writing a different post but I have had to put it on hold because I can't freaking concentrate! The reason? I forgot my earplugs today. I am forced to listen to the crap conversations going on around me and they are driving me insane.

 

All of this noise is drawing my mind away from itself and into conversations about farting on things, and shopping lists, and what someone did this morning on their walk, and what they did last night, and what they're going to do for lunch (what do you think maybe a chicken wrap or should i just cut up the steak i have in the fridge and make a steak salad?). I really, really, and make sure yunnerstand this, don't give a toss.

 

So many egos trying to clamber for top spot that everyone gets louder and louder with their talking, trying to talk over everyone else. So much "look at me. laugh at me. admire my wit." It's driving me so crazy I can't concentrate on anything. I am boiling like a cauldron about to spill over. I can't hold anything in my head.

 

I have to listen to the exploits of people I don't know and from the sound of it don't want to know. Blow by blow descriptions of tv shows full of more crap that I didn't watch for a reason. Words repeating over and over! Now it's a conversation about grug. All I can hear is grug grug grug.

 

(do you know grug? who? do you remember grug? grug? yeah grug. no. well google grug and tell me if you remember grug. it was the best show ever. no i don't remember grug. but it was the best! no, i don't know grug. jo, surely you’ve heard of grug. what? grug? yeah grug. no, never heard of it. ask bob. bob, do you know grug? what? do i know what? grug. grubs? no, grug! the tv show! grug? yeah. nope. hey i feel like potato cakes. nunnoh they're called potato scallops here. you don't sell them as potato cakes they're potato scallops. but the fish and chip shop across the road from me sells them as potato cakes. but i worked in five fish and chip shops and they're potato scallops. are they? yeah they’re scallops. yeah scallops. see jonno agrees. i'll ring dave and ask him. ok. i'm gonna go find someone who's heard of grug)

And on, and on, and on, and shoot me now. Quick, before I have to listen to anymore of the one-sided convos.

 

(yeah, the boys. what? you know. do you want me to get some spinach onna way home? or do you wanna do the fried rice thing. yeah. so, two noodles? no no. ok. so i get two noodles? yep. yep. yep. three. yeah. nah. yeah. but you can have steamed rice. i think there's steamed rice. i don't know. so i'll get the three. ok. yeah. nah nah. so... two noodles. what? nah she's got a thing with that guy. huh? lasagne? no don't worry about lasagne. like vegetables?)

 

Oh for the love of god.

 

What makes us do this to each other? Do I do this and I've just never noticed before? Do I talk crap about nothing on and on to my friends, trying to entertain them, just trying to inflate the air around me?

 

If you're talking, you're not listening. We don't listen to each other enough. Probably because, going by what I'm hearing right now, if we did, we'd be bored shitless.

 

How the hell are some people able to screen this out? How can I choose not to hear? How can I develop such precision focus to enable me to turn my ears on and off at my command? More investigation required, obviously.

 

It's at times like these I'm almost kiss-the-ground thankful for introverts.

 

Ok. End rant.

a sigh …

the morning fogged over in sympathy.
you’re gone again.
i’m alone again.

stretched thin
as i face another round
of self-reliance,

i curl into myself
trying to find
some comfort.

i am internal, quietly still,
waiting for what was
to be again.

i am one long sigh,
i am hugs on hold.
hurry up world, and turn.

friday fluff

Friday. Time to take a break from my therapy sessions and ponder the real issues in the world. Like...

Where does my mind go when it turns off?

How is it I can sometimes look with my eyes and for some reason it feels like I'm looking out of green eyes instead of dark brown?

What is it about coffee that it will first make me sleepy instead of awake? It is very tricksy.

Why does the scent of a man's neck put me in a stupor? Do they hide the pheromones there?

Will humans ever learn the art of telepathy? So much quieter.

How do the tiny little birds survive big raging storms?

Why is procrastination such a long word?

mmmmmm…

…coffee

fame, ergo, ego

So much noise! So much chatter! So much ego! The ego has to be the loudest thing on the planet. It screams from everywhere, in every language, through every form of media. Mine screams in here. How can it not? Nasty little parasite it is.

 

Even those who begin a life in the spotlight seemingly ego-free, manage to fall victim to it. I speak of Susan Boyle, the so-called 'scottish singing sensation' who has failed to move me even slightly with her singing or her story. I don't know why; I surmised it must have been because I was a cold hearted b-dog. Everyone around me spoke of weeping, of the joyous rapture moving within them when she opened her mouth. The only thing moving with me, was me, out of the room.

 

Maybe I exaggerate. I'm happy she's found her voice, good on her, and for a voice, it aint bad if you like that sort of thing. I'm just over the exposure she's receiving because seriously, it's just totally over the top. That and the eyebrows. The eyebrows scare me, truth be told.

 

It seems now she's had a potty-mouthed paddy over a 12-year old boy being given praise on a semi-final of Britain's Got Talent. She has found her ego, and its ever growing presence is demanding more room. Ego no want share space.

 

Of course, the spin doctors are doing their finest wheeling and spinning, and as it always is with fluff stories, we never know the full truth, but if it is true, I do feel sorry for her. She finds herself thrust into the public domain within an astonishingly short period of time. She doesn't really seem well equipped for it. Her ego, which may have previously been in the back seat, has now become a back seat driver.

 

Such is the pendulum of life: after being too far one way, you swing too far in the other direction. It's a lesson, no doubt. If you let your ego rule your life, you lose your essence. Here's thanking the scottish singing sensation for reminding me.

a book bind

I’m in a literary quandary.

When I decided to up the tempo on this writing thing, first thing I did was buy a moleskine and carry it everywhere to scrawl down whatever came out of my head. Second thing I did was revisit the masters. My masters -- the ones who get me excited about words: cummings, Kerouac, Burroughs, Gonzo, Hesse, Marquez, Irving, Kesey, Palahniuk. I devoured their inspiration and flicked the switch on the ‘let’s play with words’ room in my brain.

So when about a month ago, on yet another second-hand bookstore scavenge, I bumped into William Burroughs’ The Ticket That Exploded, it was like getting a whole new lego set for my words room. I was yea excited.

Surely Burroughs, beat poet, word maestro, would come play lego with me? Surely a novel heralded as a perfect example of the cut-up technique of writing would give me some ideas? After all, I loved Junky.

But, I. Am. Struggling! This book is too much! I’ve barely managed to push myself through 50 pages, most of that done with a facial expression whose verbal equivalent would be, “ewwwww”. Do you know how hard it is to read with one eye closed and your head turned to one side while your face is screwed up like that? I’m scared to read it in public in case someone else sees it, knows exactly what I’m reading and thinks me a total pervert.

I could describe this book (so far as I’ve read) in three words, but I can’t write them here because together, they will definitely not google well at all. The first two might be ok – gay, and alien. The third rhymes with horn. I’m not kidding. And there seem to be a lot of boys in it. I don’t think that’s right. Amazon’s key phrases for the book might give you an idea of what I’m talking about. Or maybe not.

What I do know is that I’m not getting the connection yet between what’s on the page and what the book is actually meant to be about, which I think is some sort of P.I trying to get to the bottom of an intergalactic takeover occurring through mind control and technology (and a lot of man-man loving).

The thing is, I really believe it has something to teach me about playing with syntax. The whole idea of cut-up is fascinating – take text, physically cut it up, put it back together to create new meanings through juxtaposition. Force the readers to make sense of it themselves instead of force-feeding them the meaning.

Some sentences go for whole paragraphs with no punctuation at all. Then there are whole pages of short grabs. That is the fascinating part of this book. The actual story – so very not.

Like this…

“Murder under a carbide lamp in Puya rain outside it’s a mighty wet place drinking aguardiente with tea and canella to cut that kerosene taste he called me a drunken son of a bitch and there it was across the table raw and bloody as a fresh used knife . . sitting torpid and quiescent in a canvas chair after reading last month’s Sunday comics “the jokes” he called them and read every word it sometimes took him a full hour by a tidal river in Mexico slow murder in his eyes maybe ten fifteen years later I see the move he made then he was a good amateur chess player it took up most of his time actually but he had plenty of that.”

Or this…

“In the open air a boy waiting – Smiles overtake someone walking – The questions drift down slowly out of an old dream – mountain wind caught in the door – the odor of drowned suns trailing her linen sweat in the final ape of history – Like I’d ask alterations but blue sky on our ticket that exploded”

- The Ticket that Exploded, William S. Burroughs

Both passages are pretty much, ‘wha??’ and yet I understand his play and manipulation.

So, my quandary is this: do I keep reading this – persevere as it were – through the severity of the story matter, in the hope of gleaning a new way of looking at words and syntax, or do I give up and go wash my brain out with soap?

Is it even possible to ignore subject matter altogether, and just focus on construction? Can you look at a painting of something awful only to admire the beauty in the brush strokes?

It feels wrong to turn my back on one of my masters. But seriously, he’s coming across as a dirty old bugger! Maybe I’ll give him 50 more pages.

Oh no! I flicked ahead! It gets worse! ewwwww!